


Heat of the Machine

by kaelio



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Betazoid Literature Doen't Always Translate Over Very Well, Cardassian Physiology, First Kiss, Getting Together, Living on a space station, M/M, Proportional Gifts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:34:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28974435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaelio/pseuds/kaelio
Summary: Julian finds Garak's quarters are suspiciously cold.
Relationships: Julian Bashir & Elim Garak, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Comments: 18
Kudos: 103





	Heat of the Machine

Julian took a half-step back, a reflexive retreat into the hallway of the habitat ring. “Garak!” he exclaimed. “My word, are your climate controls broken? Dreadful.” He shook his head, nevertheless pressing forth into Garak’s quarters. “Computer, door,” he ordered. “Garak! Awful. Godawful. This is too chilly for me, even.”

“I apologize, doctor. Perhaps it would be better for us to meet elsewhere? Yours, perhaps?” he offered. “I do have a selection of biscuits for us today, but we could take them anywhere you like. Quite portable.”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind at all, only it’s still a right mess and I figured it would be more polite to come to yours until I had that sorted. No idea it was an icebox.” He tugged at his sleeves, feeling the distinct prickle of his skin responding to the temperature gradient. “I’m surprised. I thought you were a technological whizz. You didn’t break it poking around in the interfaces, did you?”

Garak held up a glittering purple data crystal. “ _Hestavali Chants of Betazoid._ We only needed somewhere quiet. But, without this, _Festival of Crime: Murder and Mayhem on the Night of Knives_ is quite opaque. It’s one of the most highly-regarded novels in the entire Betazoid literary canon, and it would be a shame to experience it incompletely. It’s enough of a challenge to parse the sections featuring telepathy.”

“You’re not sick, are you?”

“It’s not broken, doctor.” Garak sighed. “And _I_ am not broken. It is uncomfortably cold. Would you prefer to stay, or would you prefer we follow up elsewhere? We could go to my shop, if you would rather. I do have seating there as well, and it’s perfectly quiet when the customers are out.”

Julian knew the runaround when he saw it. He scoured their surroundings, first of all, seeking any visual cues. He scrutinized Garak, too, his beautiful eyes scanning up and down his friend, openly evaluating. If there were any kind of hint available, particularly one he was intended to find, he did not intend to let it pass unremarked.

Garak accepted it with some resignation. There was only one way this would ever go with the doctor, but that was no reason not to be obstinate. Some things played out in their natural way. Garak would hide things, though not well, and Julian would find them, though not quickly. Their own private waltz.

“Computer, raise temperatures to twenty-seven degrees Celsius,” Julian broached skeptically, testing aloud.

And the computer answered back brusquely, almost curtly: “Cᴏɴғɪʀᴍᴇᴅ. Sᴘᴇᴄɪғʏ: ʀᴇsɪᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴏʀ ɢᴜᴇsᴛ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀ?”

Julian’s brow furrowed. “Excuse me?”

“Pʟᴇᴀsᴇ sᴘᴇᴄɪғʏ: ʀᴇsɪᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴏʀ ɢᴜᴇsᴛ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀ?”

“Ah, guest? Why… what?”

Garak rubbed the ridges above his eye, mumbling something under his breath.

“Rᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴜɴɪᴛs ᴅɪғғᴇʀᴇɴᴛɪᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀs ʙʏ ʀᴇsɪᴅᴇɴᴛ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴs ᴀɴᴅ ɢᴜᴇsᴛ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴs ғᴏʀ ʙɪʟʟɪɴɢ ᴘᴜʀᴘᴏsᴇs.”

“Dr. Julian Subatoi Bashir.”

“Exᴘᴇɴsᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ʀᴏᴜᴛᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴅʀ. Jᴜʟɪᴀɴ Sᴜʙᴀᴛᴏɪ Bᴀsʜɪʀ (CMO).”

And now Garak was rolling his eyes. He dropped himself onto the couch and began to pry open the biscuit tin in what Julian could easily recognize as a sulk.

The doctor, for his part, observed the environs once again in undisguised surprise. “They charge for temperature?”

“For those of us _unfortunate_ enough to have been born outside the reach of your government, yes, doctor, the Federation does expect compensation for use of its resources. It is an entirely conventional arrangement. Quark and his entourage operate by exactly the same rules; please do not presume I am being targeted.”

“Is it terribly expensive?” Julian asked, cautiously joining Garak on the sofa (not yet risking his own venture into the biscuit tin).

“No,” Garak snapped.

“Well if that’s the case, then why—”

“It is not terribly expensive. That doesn’t mean I can afford it.” He waved a hand. “I work in tailoring. I operate a boutique on a poorly-maintained former mining operation, which, lo, is now a docking station manned by a skeleton crew. Above an economically devastated planet. Largely servicing individuals who wear uniforms. Doctor.”

Julian was occupied by a single thought, ad nauseum: _don’t be patronizing, don’t be patronizing, good grief, Julian, whatever you do, don’t be patronizing—_

“There’s a good reason I haven’t taken you up on the exercise programs you have so graciously offered me for the holosuite, which, might I remind you, charges you the same by the hour regardless of the nature of one's endeavor. Rest assured, my dear, I do enjoy reading, but it is not the _only_ thing I enjoy. However, Odo has never bothered—or, perhaps, managed—to shut off access to the Federation libraries.”

“But you gave me Delavian chocolates? Those are extraordinarily costly—”

Garak’s glare could have turned desert seas to pure ice.

“Oh.” Julian, sensing his error, grabbed Garak’s hand. “Oh, oh, oh—oh, I’m sorry, Garak!”

(The look became even colder, far colder than the room.)

“No, I’m _grateful—_ Garak, I just didn’t realize the significance of it. That means a lot to me, getting that from you.” He winced again. “No, I mean, my point is, what I meant to say is, I think I understand it better now? Aghh!”

There was no time to waste, and little time for recovery. He gripped both sides of Garak’s face and lurched forward for a determined if artless kiss.

“D-doctor, Julian—”

“That’s what you wanted, right? I mean, sorry, if that was wrong, sorry, sorry. I mean, that’s what I’d have wanted, have wanted, but this is all terribly confusing, and I adore it, truly, the mystery of it all, of you, dearly, but when everything’s mysterious, one always has doubts and I remember thinking, I thought—no, Julian, you’ve got it wrong. And maybe I’ve got it wrong? Did I get it wrong?”

Garak wrung his hands nervously. “Ah, no, dear. That is to say, you had, hmm. You had that correct.”

Julian pulled him in again—this time, by the collar. “Computer, crank it up to thirty degrees Celcius. Guest order, Dr. Julian Subatoi Bashir (CMO)—this and everything else.”

“Doctor, please! You’ll spoil me.”

Julian planted another kiss to the bridge of his nose. “Frankly, I’d love to.”

**Author's Note:**

> Garak at one point does mention his shop generates only a "modest income". Given the situation on the station, I wouldn't be surprised if it's very modest indeed.
> 
> Just blasted this sucker out to deal with some triskaidekaphobia, as with the other one that went up today. FOURTEEN WORKS *throws salt over shoulder*


End file.
